


sounds of someday

by differentsnowflake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dean Winchester Sings, Dean Winchester-centric, Episode: s15e07 Last Call, Established Relationship, Fluff, Inspired by Music, Kinda, M/M, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, So Dean and Castiel are still divorced, Sort Of, This Is Sad, Translation, Written before 15x09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24991045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/differentsnowflake/pseuds/differentsnowflake
Summary: There are almost no lights on the highway, and the Impala's headlights brighten the snow surrounding them. His father says nothing, and Dean wishes he could keep singing, so he can stop feeling so alone.It's in that moment when he finds out he really enjoys singing, and that maybe he should start doing it more often.And he does. Not when he's around someone, of course. But, as the years pass, there are times when his dad is gone for days, and Sammy always has a friend's house to go to, so Dean is left alone, and he starts singing.Or, Dean's story with music, his voice, boys, Castiel and everything he has to face.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester/Original Male Character(s), Dean Winchester/Other(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 73





	sounds of someday

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [sounds of someday](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22561744) by [differentsnowflake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/differentsnowflake/pseuds/differentsnowflake). 



> After watching 15x07, I needed to write something about Dean and his voice and the fact that he can sing. 
> 
> Season 15 spoilers until episode 7.
> 
> I feel like it ended up being cheesy but I did my best.
> 
> I wrote this i really while ago, in spanish, and now I'm bored and I decided to translate it. I'm sorry if it sucks, I'm kinda new to this. Grammatical mistakes are on me.

Sounds of someday

_Even the fires on the road_

_Trying to get away_

_And all the stars seem on a roll_

_Out of control today_

_Though the sounds of someday_

_may be home_

* * *

Dean is starting to feel that the darkness is swallowing him, so he stars singing. He isn't scared, not exactly. He's never been scared, because dad has told him that's he can't _be_ scared, that he's way too old for that now. As if fear and anguish were supposed to magically disappear once he reached a certain age. That hasn't happened yet.

He still feels small and helpless, even if he's fourteen now. He feels like he can't breathe, even if he keeps inhaling and inhaling and inhaling, but his lungs feel like they're not there anymore, as if there was only darkness, the same darkness that swallows him and surrounds him and-

He has to calm down. Dad has told him that he'd be back for him in an hour, and even if he isn't sure of how much time has passed, he knows it will be soon. He's shivering and his nose feels like it's about to fall off, and there's little snowflakes falling on the cemetery ground. And he really wants to go home.

He's burnt the body and the fire went extinct almost instantly. Now there's only snow and loneliness and he's- not scared. He's nervous. 

So he starts humming, slow and soft, an old song that his dad likes, that has sounded on the Impala more times than he can remember. The cassette is old and worn, and it's missing an inscription. Dean doesn't know the name of the song, or whose is it, but he knows the words perfectly and it's always calmed him down.

He repeats it, again and again, while the grass keeps getting whiter and his breathing starts coming out in clouds of smoke (or _mist,_ as Sammy calls it, because he's a know-it-all.) The humming becomes words, and his voice stars raising a little, until he suddenly feels like he's screaming, that he's letting the whole world hear him, that no one can stop him. 

His throat starts hurting, but at least he can finally breathe. He's stopped shivering, and he feels like there's music running through his veins instead of blood, warming his body and taking the fear away.

It may be stupid to assume that singing, (probably sounding terrible) can solve all of his problems somehow, but he's going to let his heart take the wheel and make the decisions, just this once. Just until his father gets back and takes him to the motel, until he stops feeling like he's alone, until he stops feeling like he has to create his own company.

He's still screaming the song when the horn of the Impala startles him so bad that his whole body jumps, sung words murdered by fear. 

"Move, Dean!" His dad yells from the driver's seat. There are traces of anger in his voice, and Dean knows it's because he should have been attentive, he always must be alert. It hasn't been long since his dad started letting him help on hunts, and the last thing he wants is ruin it. 

He gets in the car, shaking the snow off his head and shoulders. It's almost three in the morning, he realizes, and he wishes Sammy was able to get some sleep. He's still scared of sleeping alone, especially when he knows Dean will be on a hunt.

There are almost no lights on the highway, and the Impala's headlights brighten the snow surrounding them. His father says nothing, and Dean wishes he could keep singing, so he can stop feeling _so alone._

It's in that moment when he finds out he really enjoys singing, and that maybe he should start doing it more often.

And he does. Not when he's around someone, of course. But, as the years pass, there are times when his dad is gone for days, and Sammy always has a friend's house to go to, so Dean is left alone, and he starts singing.

Everything he can think of, from stupid Metallica and Motor Head songs that dad loves to freaking Christmas carols, when he's bored. There's something... weird in his voice, because he doesn't _hate_ it. Not completely. It's low and a little raspy but also- Dean's not sure how to describe it. Sweet, if he has to be specific.

Sometimes he just lies down in bed and sings, he sings until there's people hitting from the other side of the walls, asking him to shut up between growls and curses. Until he feels like his throat is about to explode, until he runs out of ideas. As the years pass, also, he starts feeling like he's supposed to do something _more._

He wants to move his fingers, or something like that. He's always wanted to play the guitar, even if he has no idea how to. He doesn't even have near enough money for a guitar, and it's not like his dad will be eager to give him money for one, when he barely gives him enough to feed them.

He's still figuring out ways to get money when, on his seventeenth birthday, his father gives him three hundred dollars, adding up wrinkled and dirty bills, and tells him to spend them however he wants. 

And Dean feels like his heart starts beating again, because he's never -not since he can remember, at least- received a birthday present. 

Two weeks later, his dad finds a case in New York. They had a problem with child services a few years prior, so dad decides to leave them with Bobby, especially since it's almost summer, so he and Sam can stay there for the rest of the school year. Sammy's excited to spend more than two weeks on the same place, and Dean's excited to, maybe, be able to buy a guitar and have a place to hide it.

They arrive in South Dakota, tired and hungry, with Bobby waiting for them with a stew that tastes a little funny, but it's still food, after all. His dad leaves a couple of hours later, shooting them little smiles and strict orders to behave.

To Dean, Bobby is like his father in some way. He trusts him, and he knows he's good at keeping secrets, and that he'll always have a place to go to. Bobby also knows that Dean likes singing, or something like that.

It happened when Dean was fifteen, just a little after he discovered the way his heart seems to wake up when he's singing, just a little after his voice finished thickening and acquired the tone he's started to like. 

Dean had been on the shower, singing an old Scorpions song that went well with his voice. He had liked the way it sounded and he had let his voice come out loud and clear, sure that there was no one else home.

After dinner, Dean had been helping Bobby to wash the dishes when Bobby had smiled at him, trying to sound casual.

"I didn't know you liked singing, Dean."

And his heart had stopped, it had turned off completely. And his stomach had started churning, terrified of sounding ridiculous. God, he had just made a fool of himself in front of Bobby, the person he admires most, and god, god, godgodgod, he wanted to die.

But Bobby had just rolled his eyes, giving him a kind smile.

"You're not bad, kid. Not bad at all, by what I heard."

It's been two years since then, and he's started to feel comfortable with the idea of someone in his life knowing that he loves doing something, that someone kind-of-likes the way he does it.

So, when his dad leaves and Sammy climbs the stairs rubbing his eyes, clearly tired, Dean stays in the kitchen, staring at Bobby, who's reading the paper.

"What do you want, Dean?" Asks Bobby in a growl. Dean knows him well enough to know there's a little of amusement in his tone of voice.

"Um. Well, straight to the point, huh? How do you know I want something?"

Bobby rolls his eyes.

"Every time you want to ask me a favor you make that face, with your begging big eyes and a little pout that may work with girls, but not with me, boy."

"You _did_ ask me what I wanted, though."

Bobby gives him a little nudge, but he nods. 

"What do you need, son?"

Two days later, Bobby gets him a used guitar for 180 dollars. It's a little old and worn, but according to Bobby's friend, it's an excellent guitar, and he's only selling it because he needs the money so he can buy an electric one. 

He walks towards the garage, with an old music book Bobby has gotten him. He wishes he could play in front of Sammy, but he's scared for some reason. He knows Sammy is understanding and wouldn't make fun of him, (probably,) but there's something endearing about keeping this part of himself as _his._ Sammy doesn't have to know all about him, after all.

Actually playing the guitar is way harder than he thought it'd be. His fingers are clumsy, his wrists hurt and the strings rasp against his skin, and it's so frustrating he has to keep himself from throwing the guitar against the wall on the other side of the room. 

It doesn't feel like a lot of time has passed when Bobby appears on the doorstep, seeming tired.

"C'mon, Dean, it's like three a.m. You should sleep."

"This is really hard." He's aware that he sounds like a grumpy kid, but he feels like he's failing at the only thing he cared about. He was supposed to get this right, he was supposed to _be good._ But he's not, he's useless, and maybe everyone else is right and he's nothing but a grunt. 

Bobby seats by his side and places a hand on his shoulder.

"It's supposed to be hard, Dean. I know nothing about music, but I know it's hard. Look, you still have 120 dollars, right?" Dean nods. There are tears burning in his eyes, and he has to bite his tongue not to cry. He _can't_ cry, because Dad says only little girls cry, and he's seventeen and a Winchester, and he can't be sad about this, he really can't. "Alright, boy, leave this to me."

Daniel is 23, has long hair, a piercing and his nails are painted black. His skin is a little dark, and his eyes are a deep blue. And he's really good at guitar. He's the son of Bobby's friend, the one who sold them the guitar. He also has a lopsided smile that draws two really deep dimples.

Daniel gives him classes on the afternoon, when he gets back from school. They hide in Bobby's studio, and he has to admit that playing guitar is way easier when there's someone teaching him and not when he's trying to make sense of weird words and letters in a book.

And it turns out he's not bad, at all. Daniel also asks him to sing, and he finds himself unable to refuse. He doesn't know why. Maybe it's because Dean likes the way Daniel's eyes shine when he plays the guitar, or because he can't say no to the dimples that decorate his cheeks.

Singing and playing at the same time is really hard, and he totally fails at it. He has to stop to relocate his fingers on the neck of the guitar every two chords, but it's also fun. When he finishes, Daniel is _really_ close to him, staring strongly at his eyes.

And then he's kissing him.

Dean knows it's _wrong_ , that he has to- get away or something. But he also must admit that he likes it. Daniel tastes like cigarettes and his lips are surprisingly soft, and god, he can't believe he's kissing a boy, a _man_ , and-

Daniel moves away with a smile, and continues the class as if nothing had happened. Before he leaves, he gives him a little kiss on the cheek, and then winks at him.

Dean swallows. He feels like his whole body is tingling, like he's about to pass out. And now he understands the way he felt when he was around Daniel. Because he _likes_ Daniel, in the same way he liked Sarah, a couple of months ago, in the same way he liked Connie, from Minnesota.

And it frightens him, he's so scared he feels like he can't breathe.

He can't even eat. His stomach churns and his heart seems to shake instead of beating. His hands sweat and his eyes scan the kitchen, as if searching for someone who will reveal his secret. He can't help but to feel- dirty, as if he had just made a mistake. But he's also excited, and his lips seem to remember the feeling of the kiss and _crave_ it so much he can't think of anything else.

And feeling those two at the same time makes his brain explode, makes him want to stick a fork in his eye. God.

"You okay, Dean?" Sammy's sitting in front of him, eating mashed potatoes and looking at him with attention. Dean nods and swallows again. Bobby's also looking at him now, an eyebrow raised, but says nothing. Dean silently thanks him.

He spends all night shooting at empty cans scattered on the backyard with his silencer put on. His hands hurt and he's been biting his lips so much blood has started to pool on his lower lip. When he sees that there are already sunrays seeping through the top of the trees, he's come to the conclusion that he _really likes_ Daniel, and as long as no one finds out, he can- be with him, or something.

Daniel is the best damn thing that has happened to him in what feels like years. He's fun and unusual. He teaches him everything he knows, even when Dean is sure that, two months after they first met, the 80 dollars he paid for his classes have run out. 

Daniel takes him to small rock concerts, sneaks him into bars and takes him on long car rides. They kiss slowly on the backseat, until Dean stops feeling his lips and everything goes blurry, until he feels like he's ceased existing, until everything is a cloud of smoked decorated with moments he doesn't want to ever end.

Daniel plays the guitar and Dean sings, or they both play and sing. Daniel likes telling him that Dean's a better singer than him, and Dean can't understand _how._ It's Daniel who convinces him to get on a stage for the first time, in a crowded bar, full of young, excited and drunk people. Just like him.

In the beginning, Dean feels like he's petrified, pinned to the floor with nails made of terror, as if he had a ghost or a monster in front of him.

The first few verses are quiet and tense. Daniel stares directly at him, only for a couple of seconds, and winks at him. Suddenly, Dean feels like he might actually be able to do this.

When the song ends, there's clapping that weighs him down like an avalanche of feelings. Dean is euphoric and maybe a little drunk, but he manages to get off the stage smiling and laughing.

Daniel and him walk back to Bobby's between laughs and yelled whispers. It's almost midnight, and Dean knows Bobby will get angry if he isn't home soon. Daniel is holding his hand, entwining his fingers. And Dean feels like he's about to die, he really is about to drop dead, because it's _impossible_ to be this happy.

And when Bobby's house comes into view, he _knows_ he's about to die, because the Impala is parked on the street, its headlights shining. 

Dean lets go of Daniel's hand as if it were burning. Then he rubs it against his pants, as if cleaning himself. Daniel shoots him a estranged look, but he ignores it. He walks towards the car in silence, his heart thumping against his ribcage. He knows his dad has seen him.

John is sitting on the driver's seat, staring at some papers he's holding in his hand. He looks up at him when he sees him arriving and dedicates him a long stare, as if deciding if talking to him was worth it or not. 

"What are you doing out this late, Dean?" His dad asks. His voice is slurred, and Dean can smell the alcohol on him. He keeps himself from rolling his eyes and decides not to get angry at him. If he doesn't, maybe his dad won't get angry _at him._ Everyone wins. 

"Hey, dad. I'm sorry, I went out with a couple of friends."

His father raises an eyebrow and lets out a little whistle. "I didn't know you had any friends," he says, and Dean feels a little hurt.

"How was work?" Daniel is still standing a couple of blocks away, seeming uncomfortable. Dean gives him a long stare, and Daniel seems to get it, because he waves his hand and turns around, leaving.

Naturally, Daniel knows nothing about his _real_ life. Dean cares too much about him to tell him the truth. Daniel knows his dad travels a lot, that he leaves him and Sam with Bobby sometimes so they won't be alone. He also knows that his dad would be back someday soon, ready to put Sioux Falls on the rear-view mirror, thirsty for blood he's never seen, blood he's sure he will find, even if Dean has started to doubt it.

Dean knows he's about to leave, that his father has come to take them away, and for the first time in his life, he wants to say no. He wants to beg, ask his dad for a couple more days, a couple more months. Just long enough to be with Daniel for the rest of his life.

"It was alright. I dealt with everything I could in New York, so I don't have to leave you here in a while." His dad may be a little drunk, but he's always alert, he always knows what's going on. Dean wants to shrink under his look, because dad _knows_ Dean wants to say something, dad knows he wants to contradict him for the first time in his life.

"Sioux Falls isn't that bad, dad. Sam and I really like spending time with Bobby."

John nods a little, and finally opens the car's door. His leather jacket is covered in blood, but it's dry and brown. Dean knows it’s better not to ask. 

"We're leaving tomorrow. I'm sure we'll be back soon, though, so you can finish your senior year here, you know."

Dean frowns. It's summer already, and he'll be starting his last year of school on September. It will be a long time before he comes back, though, and he knows his little fantasy is over. It's like it never existed on the first place, as if all the happiness that felt too good to be true _was_ actually too good to be true, and now it vanishes, it seeps between his fingers like sand, like little pieces of glass that won't even cut his hands when they fall against his skin.

At three in the morning, Dean manages to sneak out through the window. Sammy is out like a light, and Daniel's it's just a couple of blocks away. He needs to say goodbye,

There are a couple of tears falling down his face while he walks backs home. It's surprisingly cold for the time of the year, and Dean kind of feels like it's because the world itself is suffering his loss, that it's reacting because no one has ever suffered as much as he's suffering now.

He has to ignore the pain, though. He's got a duty; he's got stuff to do. His life isn't easy, his life can't spin around people like Daniel. It has to spin around his family, around the family business that has started to run through his veins like some sort of disease, of infection, ascending slowly and thickly towards his heart, ready to kill him.

But _hell,_ he's going to miss it. Not only Daniel, even if that's the main reason why he's sad. He's going to miss Bobby, his guitar and the long afternoons that he could spend locked up in his office, singing loudly with Daniel sitting on the other side of the room, dedicating him smiles that felt like the brightest ones, the most important ones. 

He sneaks into the house, praying for turned-off lights. But Bobby is sitting on the couch, reading a book under the yellowish light of an old lamp.

"I know where you were, boy," Bobby says, without looking up at him. Dean's heart falls to his stomach, feeling like a heavy metal ball.

"Bobby, what-?"

"You have to be careful, kid. If your dad found out where you were going, I feel like I wouldn't see you ever again."

And Dean knows that Bobby _knows._ He also knows that Bobby doesn't have a problem with what he's been doing, or at least that he doesn't care about it, he doesn't hate him. And he feels like he can breathe again, because if Bobby is cool with it, then it can't be _wrong._

Before he can regret it, he hugs Bobby with all the strength he has. A couple of tears escape his eyes as he buries his face on Bobby's jacket. Again, Bobby remains silent, and he's never been more thankful.

The next day, as Sioux Falls, Daniel, his guitar and the little drop of happiness that he had managed to gather through three months disappear slowly in the rear-view mirror, Dean buries his nails on the palm of his hands. He's never felt this sad about leaving a place, and he knows that if he stays this decayed, he won't be able to be helpful to his dad, to Sammy.

He always has to be on alert, he always has to be awake and _fine._ He's got people to protect. 

So he promises himself he will never get that close to someone again. Ever.

The years pass, stretching like an endless road, and Dean's voice deepens and his taste for music doesn't go away. There are sometimes when dad lets him drive, when it's really dark outside, when John's been driving for so many hours that he can't keep his eyes open any longer, even if he tries. So it's Dean the one sitting behind the wheel. He sings to distract himself, to forget how alone he feels even when his family is around him.

Every time they go to Bobby's house, he cleans the guitar and plays for hours, until he feels like he can't move his fingers anymore, until the strings feel like knifes under his skin.

Sometimes, only when he's out of money and he has no idea of where his dad is, he'll sing at bars and then walk through the tables, hand extended as if he were a damn beggar. He does get some bills though, just enough to buy Sam the books he asks for, or a new jacket because he always outgrows his hand-me-downs, or whatever he needs- or wants in that moment.

And then Sam leaves, kicking and screaming and feeling like he's better than everyone else, as if choosing to leave his family made him superior. Dean is happy for him, he _really_ is.

Sam's smart, and a good person and he knows what he wants in life. He's got a future, a traced path. He wants to get away from everything that makes him his brother, but Dean doesn't resent him. At least, that's what he keeps telling himself.

There's a phrase that Sam drops in the middle of a fight, between anger and fury. Dean _knows_ he didn't mean it, not really. At least, that's what he keeps telling himself.

"I don't want to end up like Dean, dad!"

As if Dean were a piece of garbage, an example of everything that is wrong with the human being. As if Dean hadn't spent all of his life trying to give Sam a future. Maybe, over time, Dean forgot that he was a person too.

Is it because he doesn't want anything beyond hunting? It's not that, not exactly. Of course Dean wants something beyond that, of course he craves stuff. He has dreams, he's got ambitions. He likes to picture himself with a guitar, on a stage, singing with his heart in the hand, with people actually listening to him and clapping at the end, as if his only his voice was enough to make them happy for a few minutes. He pictures himself on a studio, with sunglasses and a leather jacket, recording and smiling, knowing that he can _do something_ out of the things he loves doing.

But Dean also knows that those are dreams, and sometimes, dreams can't be any more than that. It seems like Sam can't understand that, or that maybe he's brave enough to prove Dean wrong.

Dad stops spending time with him after that.

He leaves on his own hunts, and they only speak over the phone sometimes, when they need help or when one needs to make sure the other is alive. It doesn't bother Dean, not completely. He feels freer, as if, for the first time in his life, he was his own person.

He chooses _what_ to hunt, (mostly), _where_ to go, (mostly), and _how_ to do it. (Mostly.) _Mostly_ is enough for him.

He keeps going to bars at night, listening to people sing, trying to make something with what they love doing, something that he would like to try. One night, with alcohol running through his veins, he gathers up enough courage to get on the stage and sing. It's an old Bon Jovi song, one that his father would find cheesy and tasteless. But Dean doesn't care, because the lights seem to shine brighter than ever, and the world seems less intimidating.

When the song ends, he can't help but smile, and gets off the stage wobbling. Suddenly, there's a boy by his side, smiling right back at him. He's got dark skin and his eyes are a beautiful shade of brown.

"You did great, dude," the guy says. He offers him a glass of beer, and Dean can't say no.

"Thanks, I guess," he answers. The beer goes down his throat, cold and bitter.

"Do you do this for a living?"

"Nah, not at all. I only do it if there's enough alcohol on my body."

The guys lets out a laugh. His smile is really pretty, and his teeth are surprisingly white.

"Well, you'll see. A couple of friends and I are forming a band. We're missing a vocalist, and we really liked your voice. Maybe you're interested."

Dean can't help but laugh.

"I'm sorry, that's not my thing."

The guy shrugs, with a little amused grimace. He also seems a little disappointed. 

"That's a shame. I would've loved to, you know, spend more time with you. If _that_ is your thing."

And then the guys is putting a hand on his shoulder. He winks at him, with all the intention he can muster in a bar full of people.

One hour later, they're lying in a motel room, sweating and trying to get their breaths back. The guy -Dean really should ask him his name- is hugging him from behind, caressing his skin with his cold fingers. Dean should tell him to stop. He's never been a snuggler, he prefers to smile and leave and never look back. 

But it's different with guys. He's realized he's colder with girls, even if he usually sleeps with more girls than boys. It's a matter of taste, he thinks.

"You're really a handsome one," the guy whispers in his ear, making his skin prickle. Dean rolls his eyes a little.

"That's what they always tell me."

"That's because it's true. It's like you belonged in Hollywood or something. I've only seen people this pretty in movies. And you're great at singing. You're like a dream."

Dean turns around to see him. It's kind of dark in the room, but he likes the way the shadows draw his profile.

"You do know this won't last, right? I'm not even from around here. I don't want to make this uncomfortable."

They guy nods. "I guessed so, yeah. You have that look. I'm Daniel, by the way."

Dean swallows, feeling like his skin has started to melt. He knows it makes no sense, to still feel lost when he hears that name when so many years have passed, but he can't help it.

Daniel has created his own place in his heart, a nest built out of fun, yearned memories, really hidden on the parts of his brain he doesn't like going to frequently. He's tried to get him out of there, but he just can't.

"Dean," he manages to answer after what feels like an eternity,

A few weeks later, he meets Lee Webb, a young hunter with an impressive attitude, way too excited about the job to be true. Dean starts hunting with him more often than not. Just like him, Lee doesn't have a home. He lives in his car, driving until the lights of the road become unrecognizable blurs. 

Lee is a great complement for him. He's a reminder that he's not completely alone, that people who actually like him _do_ exist, people who really enjoy his company. After Sam, his father refuses to spend time with him. To him, a Sam-less Dean means nothing. He doesn't matter, he doesn't exist.

Lee _loves_ singing, and he does it shamelessly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Dean and him are driving up to Idaho for a case when Lee starts singing, loud and clear, sure of what he's doing. Dean must stare at him, because Lee lets out a chuckle while he waits for the chorus to kick in.

"You've never heard someone singing or what, Deano?"

Dean feels blood rushing up to his cheeks, but he manages to shrug.

"Not really."

Lee doesn't sing bad. His voice is raspy but fun and in tune at the same time. It's like he actually knows what he's doing, like he's been doing it all his life. 

"C'mon, Deano, sing with me. I know you know the words."

Dean shakes his head. His fingers have started to grip the steering wheel of the Impala really hard. He'd never thought he'd feel this uncomfortable with Lee by his side.

"I can't sing," he says, giving him an honest look. He hopes he's making himself clear that he's not in the mood. He's always hated it when people ask him to sing, for some reason. He knows it doesn't make a lot of sense, but everything that has to do with music, in his little world, has never made a lot of sense.

"Of course you can, we all can. C'mon, I won't get mad if you suck at it. You have it all already, it'd be unfair if you could also sing."

He doesn't budge, and after a few minutes, Lee gets tired of asking.

It's not until months after that when Lee hears him sing. Lee has become a constant presence in his life, his partner. Even John knows him by now, and he _likes him,_ which is something pretty new for his dad. He's finally comfortable enough around him to take free nights in crowded bars, flirting with girls, drinking and laughing. As if just for a few seconds, they were normal.

"We _are_ normal, Dean," Lee often tells him, rolling his eyes a little. "Different, but normal, after all. The mold is always thrown after being used, right?"

They're drinking, and the bar looks like a mixture of lights and indistinguishable shapes. The music is way too loud and there's a redhead a couple of years older than him sitting on his lap, smoking and giggling. Dean likes the way her body moves against his when she laughs.

And then Lee is on the stage, smiling at everyone, just as he likes to do when he needs to get whatever he wants. Dean feels fear running through his veins, even if he's sitting meters away, secure under his insecurities.

He doesn't know what Lee says, because words have ceased making sense on his brain. The next thing he knows, though, it's that there's people pushing him towards the stage, letting out shrill laughs.

This is not the first time it has happened to him. Shit, this is the same way he always ends up singing in front of a crowd. He's a little ashamed of not being able to do it when there's not enough alcohol drowning his senses, but he's learned to accept it. It's just the way things work.

And he's suddenly in front of a microphone, in front of a crowd. In front of expectant glares. (There's probably more indifference than excitement in their eyes, but Dean's drunk brain can be a little narcissistic.) He swallows and looks at Lee, trying to figure out what's what he wants Dean to do. 

Lee rolls his eyes, makes a sign with his hand and a song starts slowly. Of course, Dean knows the words, and the alcohol takes control over his body and he starts singing, not caring about what anyone has to say.

After that, singing with Lee becomes a habit. He doesn't know why, he doesn't know how, but he feels so _in tune_ with him. He starts feeling comfortable standing on a stage or in a bar or wherever, singing by his side. It's the best damn months he's had in a long while, the months he spends with Lee.

Of course they don't last for long. He isn't sure how they ended up like this, (he hit his head at some point, and now everything's a psychedelic mixture of colors and sounds.) But they do manage to stop the cult, and when they finally get back to their hotel room, Lee asks him for some time off, as if he were breaking up with him or something.

Lee tries to convince him to stay with him, to stop hunting for a while. He says it's to make sure they still love what they do, make sure they're doing the right thing. Dean wants to tell him yes, he really wants to nod and let the weight on his shoulders fall slowly, let it finally disappear.

He'd love to go to a state with beaches and bars, maybe California. Make sure Sammy's alright and then let some kind of vacation cleanse his body, renew him and remind him that there's a real person under the hunter he's spent years constructing.

But he _can't_ say yes, even if he really, really, wants to. His life doesn't work that way, it never has. Hunting is in his blood, it's everything that he is. And he can't stop, because there are people dying and monsters killing. There are lives to save, prisoners he can set free. And if those people can't take a break, neither can Dean.

Lee, naturally, doesn't agree, and they say goodbye a little later. Dean doesn't get on a stage in what feels like years. Because they are.

He doesn't have time to think about that, fortunately. Or unfortunately. The next years of his life are a bunch of endless, crazy situations that don't seem real. There's demons and death and Sam and an angel and a vampire and leviathans and Lucifer and alternate realities.

His life has stopped being normal. It never has, but that's other type of weird, the type he was used to. And all that disappears. Right now, he's trying to stop god -god himself- and Dean's never felt so defenseless, so scared. It outrages him, not knowing which parts of his life are real, which parts he actually chose. The strings of gods have been tied to his wrists even before he was born, and the fact that he didn't _feel_ them doesn't mean that they haven't scorched his skin, forming forty-year-old scars that he's seeing for the first time, that feel like they don't belong to him.

Now, the only one who knows about his little connection to music is Cas. Cas, sweet and perfect. Cas, a person (angel) who he'd never thought would exist, that _couldn't_ exist. But he does, he is real, and he's there whenever Dean needs him. It's not necessary to say they're more then friends, because they've always been _more,_ in some way. Dean and Cas have another type of bond, another way of seeing each other, of feeling each other. 

They're not 'boyfriends', because none of them could care less about labels or formalities. But they're _something,_ they're some kind of something that Dean has never cared to define. As the years have passed, he's lost interest to define it.

But Cas is gone, and Dean's alone, completely alone, for the first time in a long while. He'd like to tell himself that he's not _that_ alone, that he's exaggerating. But now that Cas has decided that Dean isn't worth it, and now that Sam has found new people to spend time with, Dean can't help but feel that he's no more than a shadow, a brief thought that comes and goes with the easiness of a spark, a glint between thousands of not-that-relevant thoughts.

He's asked for it, and he's not afraid to admit it. In his mind. 

He knows he's prone to push people away, he's prone to make other people pay for his mistakes when he's the only one to blame. He can't help it; he's always been this way. Sometimes he feels like he ended up being too much like his father, in all the aspects he refused to imitate him.

And then Lee is on his life again, just for a few instants. And Dean gets back on a stage, and he feels more alive than he has in years. It's amazing, how liberating it feels to sing in front of so many people, letting his voice slither out of his throat, filling his mind and making him _forget_ , just for a couple of seconds, the torment that he's been drowning on since he decided that he wasn't the one to blame, that his mistakes were on somebody else.

When he goes back home, he picks up the guitar he's got hidden in the bunker. He doesn't really care that Sam and Eileen are near, he's decided to stop caring. He also knows Cas is there, probably sitting on his bed, staring at the empty walls of his room, like he always does. 

Dean's fingers run through the strings without emotion, almost with indifference. He hasn't played the guitar in a long while, and it almost feels new, to hold it between his hands. He remembers Daniel, his dimples and his painted nails. The way he used to smile when he put his fingers on the wrong frets. 

Dean's not ready for a lot of things he doesn't feel like naming. Maybe he'll never be. But he is willing to raise the veil of lies that's been drowning his life, that sticks to his skin with uncomfortable sweat and is so hard to take off.

There's an old Lynyrd Skynyrd song that he's got fond memories of, that used to boom through the Impala's speakers quite often. And he knows the chords, and he knows the lyrics, so he decides it just _makes_ sense to play it.

The acoustics of his room in the bunker isn't exactly great. The sound reverberates against the cold concrete walls and makes it feel almost like it were naked, as if the sound didn't have a place to embrace, a place to reflect in.

But he has to work with what he has, and he's never really cared about the acoustics. His voice sounds almost alien, soft and barely audible over the chords of the out-of-tune guitar. But he likes it, and it's been so long since he last felt so relaxed, so in peace. It's like singing allowed him to forget that he's alone, that he's got a thousand things to worry about. 

He has to admit that he does try his best, decorating parts of the song with his voice that are not that elaborate. Maybe he's bragging a little, but if he's going to let someone actually hear him, he's going to make sure that that someone doesn't think he's bad at it.

Cas has heard him sing before, of course he has. Dean feels comfortable around him in a way he's never felt with anyone before. And Cas doesn't seem to mind that Dean sings, as if it wasn't a big deal, as if he'd been listening to Dean since the beginning of his celestial existence. And that's what Dean likes, because if he feels like what he's doing is _normal,_ that it's not something he has to keep to himself, it's like he'd felt comfortable with that part of himself since the star, as if he didn't have things to regret.

When the song ends, Dean finishes the last few chords moving his fingers with sluggishness, delaying the last instant. His throat burns and he doesn't know if it's because he's holding back tears or because he's been way too long without singing. He guesses it doesn't matter, because there's someone knocking at the door.

The knocking is hesitant, as if they were afraid to exist. It's Cas, he knows this because Cas always knocks five times before entering Dean's room, wanting to make it clear that there are little things that make him different from the rest of people in Dean's life.

Dean stares at him, and his throat tightens up even more. He realizes it's tears he's been holding back, and he doesn't know why. He should apologize to him, tell him he never wanted to blame him for everything, as he always does. He was just desperate, and it's always been easier for someone else to take the fault, so he can keep pretending that everything's _fine._

"Hey, Cas," he whispers. His fingers are still playing with the guitar strings, somewhat fearfully. It's been so long since he last played it that it feels like it can turn to dust from one moment to another.

"Dean." Cas is still standing under the door, upright and staid, as always. He also has that special look on his eyes, though. That one- special, the one he usually sends his way when he wants to say something but he knows he can't.

They stare at each other for what seem like an eternity, unsure of what to say. Dean wants to make a joke, make Cas loosen up a little so he can comment on his music. But he has no idea of what _Cas_ wants, and in that situation, after how much he's ruined their relationship, he's brave enough to accept that, right now, what Cas wants matters so much more.

"It's been a long time since I last heard your voice," Cas says. He sounds serious, like some kind of critic. "I came... I came because, although it was beautiful, it sounded like you were suffering. I know it's not our best time as a couple, but I don't want you to suffer."

Dean can't hide the little smile that has formed in his lips.

"I'm not suffering, Cas," he clarifies. "Just... this is how you're supposed to sing, you know? With feeling."

Cas shakes his head.

"No, Dean. I've heard you sing before, and you've never done it with... with so much- sadness."

"Cas."

Castiel seems to understand what Dean needs, because he advances carefully towards the bed. He sits by his side with precaution, as if they hadn't been sleeping together for years, as if they hadn't been sharing every single litte detail.

"I think Sam heard you," Cas tells him, in a quiet whisper. "I saw him standing at the end of the hallway, seeming estranged."

Dean shrugs. Cas seems to understand that, at least for now, he doesn't care, because he draws a little smile.

"That's new," he notices. "I never understood why you despised singing in front of other people. You have one of the most beautiful voices I've heard, Dean."

"I'm sure you haven't heard a lot of voices, Cas."

They remain silent for so long that Dean starts to feel like there's no one beside him. Maybe he's imagining it all, and Cas is still pissed at him, building invisible, huge walls that keep Dean from gathering up enough courage to apologize.

But then Cas is suddenly taking his hand, a carefully thought touch that also feels really natural. It's like it hasn't been weeks since the last time they spoke, since the last time they touched. Dean squeezes Cas' hand a little, trying to let him know that he's _there,_ trying to let him know what he wants to happen.

Cas rolls his eyes and purses his lips, as if looking for courage between the anger and irritation Dean supposes he must be feeling. 

"I just... I just want to be with you, Dean. I want you to forgive me, I want to forgive you. But you won't let me talk, and you won't talk either. I'm not- I can't understand everything you're feeling, and I can't be with you when you don't want to be with me, Dean."

"Is... is that what you think?" Dean turs around to fully see him, catching Castiel's eyes with his sight. "That I don't want to be with you?"

Cas grimaces and nods a little.

"No, Cas, of course not. I was- I was angry, I guess. Really angry. And everything that happened, with Jack and mom and all the shit we've been through, it was my fault. It was me who didn't think things through, but I blamed you anyway because I guess it was just easier than admitting that I can't do anything right, that I ruin everything-"

"Dean."

Cas interrupts him with a weird look, a mixture of sadness and anger. He's also staring at him, almost without blinking. His eyes are unbelievingly blue, and Dean remembers the intrigue he felt when he first saw them, the first time he saw Castiel walking through the doors of that old barn, all powerful and unknown.

And then Dean manages to be brave enough to pass his arm through Cas' shoulders, pulling him towards him. Cas reacts way too late, and they're kissing before the angel can ask for an explanation. 

The rest is an abstract painting, brush strokes and traces that he can't completely comprehend, but that are beautiful anyway. The guitar falls off the bed with a deaf noise, but Dean doesn't care. Cas' hands are all over his skin, his lips against his own. And he's missed him. _God,_ he's missed him _so damn much._

The next thing he remembers with clarity enough to describe, it's that they're laying down, with Cas surrounding him with his arms. And Dean feels, for the first time in a long time, that they've got a chance. Of winning, of leaving it all behind, of getting a happy ending. It sounds stupid, wrong-placed hope that shines against the odds. 

A few weeks later, Jack is back, along with a plan that seems like a long shot but that also can be used as a weapon, that means they have an actual chance. Ammunition is ammunition, and they are going to use it. 

Sam, Cas, Jack and Dean are in a bar, full of people who drink and laugh as if their fates didn't lie on the hands of a crazy man who enjoys epic stories that should only exist on books and movies. 

It's stupid, maybe even childish, but Dean wants to sing in stage without more alcohol than blood running through his veins for the first time in his life. He's scared, because he knows singing is a way to be vulnerable, a way to open up and showing a part of himself that's always felt comfortable under the shadows, easy on its lockdown, happy until it realized it _was_ locked, until it realized there were more things besides the four walls built out of doubt and insecurities it was surrounded by. 

So, when he hears someone calling his name, Dean stands up, ignoring the round of applause that will never stop feeling like expectations. 

And he starts singing, because everything else, for a few seconds, has stopped being important. He doesn't care.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are highly appreciated!
> 
> English is NOT my first language, in case you were wondering why the writing sounds kind weird.


End file.
